Before I Pull This Trigger
by Bendydicky
Summary: "John had killed men with this gun. He would kill himself with this gun. Why not. Anything to end the feeling he had in his chest. " This is a short ficlet base on MCR- Early Sunsets Over Monroevile.


John had collapsed the second he walked through the door at 221 b. All the energy from the adrenaline had be torn from his body. He was left as a broken, sobbing mess on the floor.

The broken noises coming from his throat didn't register to him as his own. He had no clue how long he was on the ground or how he got there. All he could feel was a weight in his chest and the tightness in his throat. All he could see was the pale blue eyes of his friend staring blankly up at him. All he could hear was Sherlock's voice.

_This phone call, it's... it's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note. _

Everything inside him felt like it was on fire. His lungs felt like they were being compressed. Every time he dared to open his eyes it seemed like the room was spinning so, he kept them shut.

When he opened his mouth nothing came out. Just a silent scream that no sound escaped from and that left drool running down his chin. With every breath his shaking got worse. Until the tears just wouldn't come.

He slowly opened his eyes. His mouth closed and lips trembling he looked around.

Everything here reminded him off Sherlock. The chair where the tall dark haired man would sit and yell at the crap tv. The violin that had kept John up till dawn most nights. The half finished science projects scattered about the kitchen.

How could he leave John like this. They could have fixed this. This wasn't true. This wasn't the end. He could have just asked for help. John would have helped.

_Alone is what I have, alone protects me._

John felt his throat tighten again. He didn't mean that, he knew John would protect him.

Why did he wait till John was there. Sherlock could have jumped before he got there. Was John supposed to take comfort in what he had said? How could he, they were lies. Lies falling from the one man he honestly trusted.

John gasped for air and held it in till he couldn't take it, and let it go. His world was spinning. Nothing made since. Sherlock hadn't been a fraud. Moriarty had been real.

The man strapped a bomb to him of course he had been real! Moriarty had tormented and played with the British government, they had to know he was real. Mycroft had him tortured. They were both real, Sherlock and Jim.

Only Sherlock was dead. No pulse, cracked open head, blank face.

Shaking, John stood up and made his way to the kitchen. He could end his life too. There was nothing to live for. He should have died in the middle of the desert somewhere in Afghanistan. He never expected to live this long.

He found the gun in the drawer closet to the fridge. He stopped keeping it in his room. It was to far away if he needed it in a hurry, if he needed it to defend him and Sherlock. That wouldn't be happening anymore. He wouldn't be defending anyone. He had no one.

He picked up the gun. It was heavy in his hands. The solid black metal was cool and nonthreatening to him. He had killed men with this gun. He would kill himself with this gun. Why not. Anything to end the feeling he had in his chest.

It was like something had been torn from inside him. As if all his vital organs were just gone. As if he was just hallow.

Whimpers fell from his mouth as he sat at the kitchen table. It was littered with bottles and text books, scribbled notes on things he probably never understand even if he tried.

He could do this, he could end this, it would be easy. I quick twitch of his index finger and he'd be with Sherlock again. God knows they'd both end up in hell. If not just for committing suicide, then for everything else in their lives.

Yet still, he couldn't feel that Sherlock was dead. It just wasn't there. He would feel it, wouldn't he? If his best friend was dead. He watched him fall. Surely no one could survive that. Not even Sherlock.

He had watched him hit the ground, he saw the blood, he felt... nothing. Empty eyes. That was that. Empty eyes on the pavement out side St. Barts. That couldn't be faked.

He put the gun in between his parted lips and held it there. The cold metal spreading his teeth, the hardness and the sterile taste. His eyes were closed. His hands were shaking. Seconds pasted in to minutes. All he could do was sit there, he could pull the trigger and all the pain, the empty eyes, it would all be gone.

He could end his life just as easily as Sherlock had.

It would be nearly painless. His mind would have no time to register the pain. He'd be dead. There would be nothing. There already was nothing, nothing but the pain pounding it's way through his body. There was no more Sherlock. No more cases. No more late night experiments. No more last minute Chinese.

This wasn't right. Sherlock wasn't … wasn't dead. No. Sherlock was a lot of things, but he wasn't a liar, or a quitter. As he had said, the man would out live God to have the last word. This wasn't over.

John took the sig out of his mouth and set it on the floor next to him. Looking up to the sky he prayed. Something he hadn't done since he joined the army, since he got shot. He prayed to something he wasn't sure he believed in anymore. As he let himself go he felt the inevitable head ache start. His throat was sore and his eyes burned.

He laid himself down next to the gun, and feel asleep. Tears still falling long after he reached unconsciousness. Sherlock wasn't dead. He couldn't be dead. He prayed for a miracle, and he was going to believe in that miracle. This wasn't how it was going to end. He was sure of it. He had to be to carry on.


End file.
